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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23151757">Reflection</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GofyTomcat1/pseuds/GofyTomcat1'>GofyTomcat1</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hamilton - Miranda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 05:08:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,191</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23151757</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GofyTomcat1/pseuds/GofyTomcat1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton reflects on his past and his relationship with his father and with Washington</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Reflection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Middlebrook New Jersey, 1778</p><p>Staring at the correspondence sitting upon his narrow desk, hunched over the parchment beneath the glowing light of a single candle, the short, red-haired figure sits quietly, reflecting on the meaning of struggle, and conflict, and family. The wind blusters outside his tent, the cold air blasting against the canvas, rippling through the worn holes in the tattered cloth. The rain patters through the holes, pouring steadily, as the thunderstorm rages through the army’s camp at Middlebrook. A ginger colored tomcat purrs contentedly at his feet, huddled in a ball of reddish brown fur, its gentle purr buzzing softly amidst the constant fusillade of rain.</p><p>His eyes are closed, reflecting on the storm outside. The storm that reminds him so very much of home, of the life he left behind following the hurricane which ravaged his town. He thinks about his family, about those who he calls his kin, and wonders where they are now. He can answer at least part of that last question. He knows that his brother, James, is alive, somewhere, still working on the islands. He knows that his mother has passed on, for he witnessed her departure from this world, watched her breathe her last there in the dim darkness, gasping for breath, her cries of agony drowned out by the stench of her own filth. He does not like to reflect upon those days of misery and pestilence, for they remind him too much of the price he has paid to reach this position of menial prominence here in America.  Too much sadness fills those memories, too many unshed tears and bitter reflections fill the darkness of that part of his mind, and he does not like to dwell upon them.</p><p>Nor, he realizes, pausing to stroke the softness of the ginger cat, can he bear to think about his father, the debt-ridden merchant who departed so suddenly from his early life. There are times, when he feels the most alone, the most frightened or uncertain or hopeless, that he tries to recall his father’s visage. He tries to conjure up the memories of the man who was present in the earliest days of his existence, as briefly as it was, in order to stave off the feelings of loneliness and abandonment. He tries in vain to remember the features of his face, or the color of his eyes, or the sound of his voice, but the memories are muddled, enshrouded by a hidden feeling of resentment, almost hatred, for the way James Hamilton abandoned his family in an endeavor to escape arrears. In a way, he feels a sense of pity for the man who helped conceive him, a sense of helplessness for the disparity of his situation and the series of events which led to his departure.</p><p>Even as he resents his father for abandoning his family, he also understands, if only in the slightest of degrees, why that decision was made. Desperation, he knows from his own experience, is likely to bring out either the best or the worst in men. For himself, his troubled childhood has given him strength, resolve, and determination, filled him with a desire to rise above his appointed station and aspire for greatness. For his father, on the other hand, he realizes that the same pressures and situations are the things which broke his resolve and shattered his spirit. Deep inside himself, he has promised that he is not his father’s son. He will not reduce his legacy to debt and squalor, nor will he allow his future intended, whomever she might be, to suffer the same fate his own mother did: penniless and infirmed and entirely friendless. He will not consign himself to his father’s fate. He is his own man, and he will not allow the sins of the father to burden down the life of the son. He is Alexander Hamilton. He is not James Hamilton, and though he carries his father’s name, he comforts himself in knowing that he will not have to share his fate.</p><p>In his mind, he has no father. In his mind, the man who abandoned him is merely a stranger, just another face in the mural which is his life. His connection with James Hamilton has given him very little, and he has known what it feels like to beg for assistance. He will not reduce himself to begging again. That is not his way. It has never been his way. He is a man who has cast aside his past and tried desperately to never look back again. That life, the life of the miserable, destitute orphan bastard from Saint Croix, feels more like a memory now, a distant part of him lost in the ever-flowing confusion of his mind.</p><p>In his mind, Alexander Hamilton has no father. He has had a male influence upon his life, the influence which a father normally provides, but it was never truly a loving one. His experience with a paternal figure has been warped by the experiences of his childhood, experiences which have shaped him, formed him into the ambitious young man he is today. And while he can bring himself to respect his father, even express a modicum of sympathy for him, he can never truly say that he loves him, or indeed, that his father ever truly loved him in return. There is a void within his heart, an emptiness within his spirit which has never truly been satisfied, a part of him which has never felt a father’s love or compassion or empathy. He has accepted this emptiness, allowed it to shape him and make him stronger than he was in boyhood, but he has also had to live with the repercussions of these feelings, a burden that no one has really attempted to help him bear.</p><p>No one, that is, except the General.</p><p>In Washington, Hamilton sees the father he has always wanted, the father he never had. Strong-willed, stoic, proud of his army and its accomplishments, George Washington represents the man who has always stood by his convictions and those in whom he has entrusted them, even in the midst of the most demanding trials and tribulations. In Washington, Hamilton finally sees someone who believes in him, someone who sees him as more than merely a burden, an extra mouth to feed. Unlike James Hamilton, His Excellency has always seen greatness in Alexander, has entrusted him with some of his greatest burdens and helped the boy bear his in return. In Washington, Hamilton has found a steadfast and resolute ally, confidant, and mentor, someone who has given him reason to stand by his cause even as those around him falter and fade into obscurity. In Washington, he has found someone who can look past his troubled childhood and see him for the man he has become, rather than the boy he was.  Someone who loves him, the same way a father loves his son.</p><p>Only George Washington is not Alexander Hamilton’s father. And Hamilton, no matter how much he might wish it to be so, will never truly be Washington’s son.</p>
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